Torqueo
by Skull Bearer
Summary: The War of the Lance is over. Dalamar is heading to the Tower of High Sorcery to find out what happened to Raistlin, but going on is so much harder when you're alone. Nineth in the 'Ivory and Ebony' series and fits between Chronicles and Legends. AU slash
1. Memories

**Torqueo**

Thoughts

_A billion words ago _

_the sailors disappeared _

_a story for the children _

_to rock them back to sleep _

_-Covenant, Call the Ship to Port_

The journey to the Tower of High Sorcery was not one Dalamar remembered in any detail. It had barely been Spring Dawning when he'd left, but somehow two months had gone by, two months he had almost no recollection of. The journey through the war-torn lands of northern Ansalon must surely have produced some memories, but for the life of him, Dalamar couldn't find them. All he knew was that every moment was crystal clear when it happened, as though the insulating layers of his mind had been stripped away, only to blur and fade from memory afterwards.

Like the first days of his exile, or the days after the Nightmare, he was too dazed, too stunned to really take anything in beyond his goal, to do anything but react. It felt, _he_ felt, utterly lost. He had rarely ever tasted failure this sharply, not since Tarsis. He had found Raistlin only to lose him again, and nothing, neither his magic nor his wits had been able to make as much as a speck of difference. The Tower of High Sorcery might be his best chance, but Dalamar couldn't forget that it was also his last. And thus, Raistlin's.

That was what made it the worst of failures, the knowledge that Raistlin had been relying on him, and he had failed. That was what had made it worse than Tarsis and made it so terrible now. He couldn't fail. He simply couldn't but since when had his needs ever mattered to anyone?  
It would have been easier not to care, not to care would be not to hurt. But that was long, long ago and even now, Dalamar couldn't wish for it.

He didn't know where Raistlin had gone. The dragon had flown west, and Dalamar couldn't help but wonder if it would have been better to have gone to Palanthas after all, on the off chance that the dragon had been headed there. There had been a Tower there once, Dalamar remembered.  
Perhaps now, with the creature possessing him weakened by summoning the dragon, Raistlin could-  
Stop. Stop. Raistlin wouldn't have been able to do anything. All he had to do was remember the look of his lover's once-familiar face to know that. If he hadn't been able to fight after discovering Dalamar was alive, and with the creature tired from fighting its way out of the Temple, then being in Palanthas wouldn't help either.  
But if the Temple had given the creature the power┘ Stop it. He couldn't do that, couldn't allow himself to hope again. He had done it once and almost gotten himself killed. It had only been shock that had kept the creature from killing him with Raistlin's stolen magic. He wouldn't have this advantage again.  
So he had left, swallowed his fear and turned away from Palanthas and the west, heading south, towards the Tower of High Sorcery at Wayreth, untold hundreds of miles away. Alone. As he had left Raistlin alone.

The port at Lemish was different from when Dalamar had last seen it, four years ago with Raistlin at his side. It was at once richer and poorer, having prospered and lost along with the Dragonarmies.  
The Dragonarmies were here now, what was left of them, fleeing on whatever ship would take them. It took all of Dalamar's remaining steel pieces to buy a place of one heading to New Ports, and he counted himself fortunate. The dishonest Lemishians were charging exorbitant amounts from the desperate, and it had been sheer luck he'd been able to find an Abanasinian trader whose prices were more reasonable.

The crossing, like the journey to Lemish, remained a blur. When there was nothing to occupy his attention it turned inwards, endlessly searching through his memories to find anything- _anything_- he could have done differently.  
And there was nothing. There was nothing he could have done. And that was so much worst because he was _helpless_. Anything more would have been suicide, and anything else would be suicide now. There was nothing he could have done that he _hadn't_ done, and nothing he could do that would make the least bit of difference.

He remembered when he had last been on a ship, the last time he had truly seen Raistlin, and he thought about that too. A mage's memory was a curse as well as a blessing, he couldn't forget. He could remember so clearly Raistlin's face, the last night they spent together, curled up like cats in a basket against the wind. Warm together.  
He was cold now, though it was spring when before it had still been winter, a cold that crept inside his skin and froze his heart. A cold he had not felt since he'd allowed Raistlin to melt it, all those years ago. A cold like that he'd seen in Raistlin's eyes.

The crew left him alone, for which he was grateful. Ship's crews had a tendency to charge their passengers for every little thing, but one look at Dalamar's face and they reconsidered. He ate his own food- which he must have gathered at some point along the way, though he couldn't for the life of him remember where- slept in a corner of the deck and paid no attention to anything but the horizon, as though he could force the ship to move faster through sheer force of will.

He had been to the New Ports before, heading north with Raistlin five years before. The crossing had been bitter, winter cold mixing with the joint aftermaths of Raistlin's Test and Amberyl, but Dalamar would have given anything to be able to go back there with Raistlin than be left here alone. And those memories wouldn't leave him either.  
There were other memories pulling at him too, from another time when he had also been alone, but hadn't known any better. It had been spring then too, when he had been travelling north from Tarsis, and he had been travelling like he was now, on his own, living on whatever he could find, barely knowing where he was going save for the direction- then north, now west.  
He travelled south first though, following the coast. Cutting inland would mean more memories, and the danger of meeting more remnants of the Dragonarmies. An ancient road led the way, splitting through the Kharolis Mountains, leading to Pax Tharkas, but Dalamar had no wish to follow it. He didn't want to meet anyone who might recognise him- from either side of the war.  
He left the road after only a few hours in the mountains and cut straight through. He wasn't the only one avoiding the road, and often he caught glimpses of human or goblin refugees, fleeing south to the wilderness of the Plains of Dust rather than risk staying where the righteous might find them. Once, he and Raistlin had been the ones running, in the Sentinel Peaks further south where they had hidden when their pursuers had been goblins rather than dragons. Dalamar remembered the cave, and the spell they had found. He wondered if they would have found anything else had it not been already ransacked, and if it would have made any difference.

Dalamar left them behind as he travelled further west, through the very mountains they had travelled through last autumn, looking for shelter from the swords of the Dragonarmies after the terror of Pax Tharkas. He had come here at the head of thousands, with Raistlin at his side, he returned here alone, abandoned and helpless, risking everything on one last chance.  
And Gods- _Gods_- it hurt. Every memory was a shard of ice piercing his heart. Alone. Alone. Easier not to think, to shut his mind down until he needed it.

He didn't have a map, the Blood Sea had done for it and besides, he needed none. No map could show the position of the Tower of Wayreth. He had no way of finding it, but he _had_ to find it. He had to.  
It was a flaw he hadn't considered, in truth hadn't wanted to consider. He had no way of finding the Tower. He hadn't been Tested, and he would only find it if it wanted him to. Even if he did somehow come across it, he would have to make his way through the enchanted grove surrounding it, impossible if the mages didn't want him to.

Well then, Dalamar decided, he would show them impossible. He would try, and they would allow him through or be forced to kill him.  
And where would that leave Raistlin? Dalamar snarled at himself. Lost, trapped within his own mind when he could be the only one capable of helping him? How would throwing his life away change anything for his lover? If he was Raistlin's last chance, he couldn't risk death so easily, and certainly not through sheer frustration.

It was colder in the mountains, but food was plentiful. Clear, cold skies and the stone knives of the mountains carving it up on every side filled Dalamar's days, the constant planning of his route keeping his mind occupied and away from the other thoughts crowding in on his mind.  
The nights were worse, when it was colder and the loneliness stabbed deeper. Sleeping alone after seven years, coldest and loneliest of all.

Despite this, he made good time. The Kharolis were shrinking in size, trees sprouting on their weathered slopes and filling the valleys, growing lush with game as spring brightened even this place.  
And then, one day- Dalamar had lost count how many, but his boots were worn through and his cloak no longer cut out the wind- he reached a cleft between the mountains and was looking down on a vast sea of green, Qualinesti to the north, Wayreth to the south, and the Alhanas river running between them.  
He should have felt something, pain at the sight of the elven lands, relief at the sight of Wayreth, but all he could dredge up was exhaustion and dread at what might happen now. From now on, nothing he could do would make any difference. He'd made it here, now it would be up to the Tower to find him.

The forest of Wayreth was dark, far darker and gloomier than when he had last come here, in the unspeakably wonderful first years they had spent together. He had been afraid then, scared for Raistlin, cut deep- or so he'd thought- by Caramon's revelation of his past. Had he been able to see what would happen, he would have treasured those moments like the gold they were.  
Being here was like being in Darken Wood, and as frightening. He was unwelcome here. Dalamar gritted his teeth, as much from frustration as fear. They would not let him find them, but by Nuitari they would have to throw him out first. He'd go back to Darken Wood if he had to, and if they thought this would frighten him off, they were very, very mistaken.

The first night was almost enough to make him reconsider. The forest was almost pitch-black, with no more than the faintest of starlight to hint at what the darkness hid, far more frightening than if he hadn't been able to see anything at all. He remembered the undead of Darken Wood, and shuddered. If the Forestmaster had been able to call on such creatures, the Master of the Tower would be able to call on far worse.  
But nothing came, and eventually Dalamar fell asleep.

The next day was the same, wandering south through the shrouded aspens. He would not leave. If he had to stay until they called him for his Test, so be it. He would not leave. Strange. He had once looked forward to his Test, had even talked about it to Raistlin, when they had thought he would be the first called up. About how it might be, and what they would do to celebrate afterwards, and how Dalamar could sneak spellbooks and scrolls out of the Tower for Raistlin to study. Now, it was a chore at best, an obstacle at worst.

The third, and Dalamar couldn't avoid the doubts any more. True, last time it had been a week before he and Raistlin had found the Tower, but then Raistlin had been called. And Dalamar couldn't ignore what the mages there had done to his lover in his Test. Whatever had happened to Raistlin had happened here, and the mages had let it happen. If they had chosen not to help him, then why would they help him now? And if they hadn't been able to help him, why would it be any different now? Par-Salian had cursed Raistlin, perhaps in order for the young mage to take his life before long. Before now? Before this could happen? Had they known what would happen?  
He had to know. He couldn't leave.

The forest was strange, ragged and rough in comparison to the elven woods Dalamar's had grown up in. Rock and boulders filled the valleys, probably fallen from the Kharolis mountains, building strange escarpments that Dalamar examined closely, because any of them could hide a clue for what he was searching for.  
That night seemed darker than ever, the early leaves rustled quietly, mixing with the creaking of branches to sound almost like whispers that even he couldn't understand. Not yet. It would have been unnerving had it not been heartening. This place was enchanted, the Tower was here somewhere. He could almost see motion out of the corner of his eyes, flickers in shadows that not even his elvensight was able to penetrate.

The next day dawned darker than the others, darker than any cloudy day could be, as though the sun had never risen and the world was in perpetual twilight. It was colder, winter again, and Dalamar almost expected to see snow on the ground. The magic crackled in the air like electricity before a storm.  
There were no stars that night, only the moons looming huge and heavy in the sky. Dalamar barely slept.

Darker still the next, making almost impossible to distinguish between day and night. Dalamar couldn't rely on either the absent sun or nighttime moons, and was forced to guess his way through the wood. He had to use his elvensight as he made his way over the rough roots and stones that littered the earth. The trees were taller now, the ground rockier, and the forest wilder, as though he was the first person to set foot here. For all he knew, he might be. He was trying to break into the Tower of High Sorcery, and there was a reason he had never heard of anyone succeeding.  
A cave caught his attention, cored out of a hillside and almost overgrown with the roots of trees. It bore straight through to the other side, but when he reached the end, he could see nothing but more trees, stretching almost mockingly away into the distance.  
That night, not even his elvensight could piece the gloom, and, having slept a little during the day, he didn't bother making camp tonight. Not tonight.

He knew it when he saw it, it couldn't have been, could never have been anything else. A long tunnel crafted of intertwining oaks, growing in a way not even elven craftsmanship could force, and beyond that, dark as Nuitari, the twin spires of Wayreth.

_Skull Bearer._


	2. Delirium

_Dracoqueen22: Thank you. I was worried that I might be going on a bit, and it's good to know it still works._

_Shadow: Cheers!_

_Tempest: Thank you, I'm glad you liked it._

_Koroko Serinia: I've been worrying that I spend a bit too long on every chapter, and going into unnecessary detail. Pleased to know it isn't a problem._

_arrasailup: Thank you! Angst is a balancing act, far too easy to get wrong._

_Lord Anaki: Thank you, I liekd that, although the main reason for it was that I didn't want to spend pages and pages dwelling on useless detail ;)_

_analiathe1st: I have been wanting to give them a breather, but the truth is, I can't. They've had the last few years easy. Now for the angst!  
Raistlin: And what was Amberyl, may I ask?  
Dalamar: Don't provoke her or it'll just get worse._

_Shadowvalkyrie: Not for a while yet, I'm afraid. But then, you know that. ;) As always, thank you._

_Halokitty: Thank you!_

_Thank you to avirdis for the excellent beta._

**Torqueo **

Delirium

_a million burning books _

_like torches in our hands _

_a fabric of ideals _

_to decorate our homes _

_-Call the Ships to Port, Covenant._

The darkness under the trees was just as impenetrable as before, but the bare branches gleamed like moon-touched metal. The air was still, but as Dalamar approached the branches stirred warningly, as though sensing something was wrong. He quickened pace, glancing behind him as the branches seemed to stretch towards him, grasping skeletal fingers in his direction. That moment was all that was needed, and Dalamar started as a branch snagged his robes, he tried to pull free and another one, moving faster than Dalamar could believe of any living thing- let alone a tree- closed around his arm. It didn't hurt, but it held him fast, and tightened when he tried to pull away.

His immediate reaction was to try and pry it off, but it wasn't a hand, and Dalamar could see other branches eagerly reaching out to catch him. He pulled his trapped hand as far back as he could, and cast as fast as possible, trying to ignore the pain as the branches dug into his wrist. _"Kair tangus moipiar!"_

Thank Nuitari the spell was short, because even as he cast Dalamar felt the rough touch of the bark coiling around his other hand. It released him quickly however, when the burst of flame hit it full on. The branches trapping him recoiled like snakes, but Dalamar didn't wait to see how badly he'd wounded them. He pulled his robes free, the branches clattering together like fingerbones, and made his escape down the path. He risked a look back, but the trees were still once more, their unmoving branches frozen in place.

The world seemed to flicker, and for a moment, time seemed to stop. The path /twisted/, and Dalamar was no longer in Wayreth, no longer in Abanasinia. He was in Silvanesti, racing down the road through that tormented land, and those skeletal branches were skeleton in truth, the dead limbs of the undead. Lunitari's gleam on the branches changed to blood, and Dalamar forced himself to slow down, shaking. The illusion, or the impression, faded. He was not in Silvanesti; it was his mind playing tricks, or the mages in the Tower playing a twisted game. Dalamar rubbed his hand over his face furiously, trying to banish the images. He couldn't allow himself to think about that. It was too easy to remember that place, here of all places. There were too much like each other, and the memory of what had happened last time wouldn't help.

All the same, he couldn't help but glance down at the path, half-expecting it to warp and writhe and scream, as it had in Silvanost. He looked down, then stopped.

It wasn't a face; it was a shadow, a shadow cast by someone that wasn't there. The sky was so dark that even his own shadow was invisible, but this one was clear, black on black like a hole in the path. It moved, flickering down the path. Dalamar couldn't look away, as though hypnotised. It didn't look dangerous; it looked familiar, although how Dalamar had no idea. It wasn't his, nor did it touch on the trees. It was a shadow cast by an invisible person. Hesitantly, Dalamar waved a hand through the air above the shadow, nothing. The shadow wavered, then shifted, as though the caster was impatient or anxious, then flitted off down the path.

It was Dalamar's turn to hesitate, uncertain. This could be dangerous, a wraith sent to kill him by the Master of the Tower. Or perhaps just get him so lost he'd just give up. But there was something strangely familiar about the shadow, something that didn't quite fit with the hostile surroundings. Slowly, he started after his strange guide. As long as it didn't stray from the path, he would risk following it.

The shadow was moving at a steady pace, quickly, but nothing he couldn't keep up with. As he approached, the trees rustled warningly, but quietened as the shadow passed. A darkness fell over the moon-tinted trees as it touched them, changing, seeming almost less threatening. Dalamar kept up, his eyes locked on the shade. A passing mage? Was it they whom the Tower had appeared for? Ahead, the path forked, but the shadow moved steadily onwards down the path that seemed to be leading away from the Tower. Dalamar paused, then smiled bitterly. This was a trick, a way to disorientate him. The untaken path was a lie, he remembered how the Tower had looked from outside the wood, and it was definitely leading away from where he remembered the Tower to be. The path the shadow was taking- an unfriendly, dark road over marshy ground- corresponded better to where it would be.

The path grew darker the closer Dalamar came, but the shadow was always darker, always easier to see even while Dalamar could barely make out where he was going. Puddles of water drenched the path, but when Dalamar looked in, his reflection wasn't there, just the reflections of the stars, and of very different trees than those surrounding him. Dalamar swallowed, and looked away. Those were the trees of Silvanesti. Was this a new trick to frighten him away? To draw up the most painful memories of his life? Dalamar smiled, let them try.

But when he looked into the next pool, the smile vanished and Dalamar took a step back. Not his reflection, nor that of the trees, but Raistlin's.  
A second look, and he was gone, and all that was left were the trees. But then, in the next pool, a flicker of red.

This was impossible. This was ridiculous. This was the cruellest thing they could do to him. The reflections shattered as Dalamar ran through the pool, water splashing over his boots.

The shadow moved on, and as it passed over a new puddle, Dalamar saw Raistlin's face, turned back towards him. Not Raistlin as he had seen him in Neraka, but not as before either. This was Raistlin as he had been before the Test, pale, reddish hair mussed by a wind that wasn't there, blue eyes showing that mixture of nervousness and slowly building confidence that Dalamar knew so well.

This was impossible. Dalamar felt his lips form the words. This was utterly impossible. "Raistlin?" His voice was a hoarse whisper.  
If Raistlin heard him, he didn't react, the shade of his former self moving onwards, a shadow over dry ground now. Dalamar was almost running to keep up. What was this? Why were they doing this? He could see the Tower now, the path snaking slowly but steadily towards it. Was this a sick joke? Had they finally allowed him in but had called the most terrible memory as his guide? Dalamar paused. No, not his most terrible memory. _That_ would have been Raistlin in Neraka. That would have been unbearable. This did hurt, but a deep, bittersweet pain that he didn't want to stop. Raistlin's shadow robes flapped, blown by a wind Dalamar couldn't feel, as he crossed another pool, and again Dalamar saw him, attention fixed in front of him, at the Tower? Was this how Raistlin had come to the Tower when they had called him to his Test?

No. Dalamar bit his lip. The trees he could see in the pools were not those of the forest of Wayreth, they were from Silvanesti. He was seeing Raistlin's Test.

It was all Raistlin had ever told him about his Test, that it had taken place in Silvanesti and that he had been trying to find Dalamar's old spellbooks. And somewhere in there was what Raistlin hadn't told him, somewhere in the strange record Dalamar was seeing was the key to what had happened to his lover. This was easy, too easy and since when had he ever had anything given to him? But Dalamar knew in his heart it was true It was impossible, it was agonising, and it was exactly what he had come here to find.

Had the shadow turned away from the Tower and headed straight for Darken Wood, Dalamar wouldn't have stopped to think before following.  
But it didn't. There were no more puddles now, but the shadow was as clear as ever, flitting over the cobbles of the road.  
Half-melted cobbles.

Dalamar screwed his eyes and shook his head violently. No. No more. This was a cruel game on the part of the Tower mages, this wasn't Silvanesti.  
But it had been. It had been to Raistlin, when he'd walked this path during his Test. He wondered if what he was seeing any more real.

The path ended at the gate, a gate that was a twisted mockery of that of Silvanost. Black with rust, a complete contrast with the gleaming steel of the fenceposts. They were polished to a mirror finished, and when Dalamar looked into the surface, it was Raistlin standing there, staring up at the tower.

The now familiar feeling of a hook pulling at his heart filled Dalamar's chest. Nuitari, what he wouldn't give... Not just to have Raistlin, but to have him like this, free of the pain and sickness that had dogged him ever since the Test. He wanted to step through the mirror surface and pull Raistlin into his arms, and never let go. His hand reached out to touch the smooth, cold surface of the post, the metal fogging from the warmth of his fingers. Raistlin didn't notice, his eyes were fixed on the Tower, that sharp, intense expression on his face as he debated something in his mind. Dalamar followed his gaze. The Towers of High Sorcery were dark and forbidding, not at all as he would have imagined them. Glancing back at Raistlin, he wondered how it had appeared to his lover, or what it was he had seen in its place. A Silvanesti tower, probably.

Raistlin was frowning, dark brows drawing together over blue eyes. His lips moved soundlessly, parting, three syllables. _Paladine._  
Dalamar turned first to the tower, then back at the mirror. Raistlin was still frowning, whatever he had expected hadn't happened, and those lips moved again. _E'li?_

Dalamar frowned, but Raistlin smiled and his hand reached out as though pushing the gate open. Nothing happened to the twisted gate, but the smile broadened to a grin, and Raistlin stepped forwards and vanished.  
The shadow flitted away inside the tower. Dalamar tried to push the gate open but it didn't move.

Heart starting to beat faster, Dalamar snarled a spell of opening, the iron carvings on the gate glowed slightly, but when it pushed at it again, it didn't so much as rattle. Taking hold of the carvings, he pulled hard, but he might as well have been trying to move an oak tree. Raistlin's shade was almost out of sight now, and the thought of losing it, or missing the vital clue that would let him finally understand, Dalamar felt himself start to panic. The fence was high and tipped with sharp spikes at the top, but if it was the only way then he would chance it. The carvings would make good footholds and he scanned them quickly, picking out a route up.

Dalamar paused. Despite the voice in his mind screaming at him to hurry up, he made himself stop. There was something about these carvings... The gate in Silvanost had been a work of beauty, that of the Nightmare one of horror but this was different, although it had elements of both. Rather than images of animals and monsters, it was a map, skeletal trees and serpentine paths leading to the strange, stylised Tower in the centre. Dalamar could see the gate, could see himself, and even a strange darkness that Dalamar realised must be Raistlin. He reached out to touch it, and his hand tingled as it brushed over the iron. The gate rattled and Dalamar snatched his hand back. It stopped. Taking a deep breath, Dalamar touched the gate again. The dark spot had changed place, although he hadn't seen it move. This time the rattle was slighter when he touched it, but Dalamar didn't pull his hand away, he traced his fingers back to the image of the gate within the gate, and pushed.  
It swung open.

Dalamar's patience evaporated and he ran towards the towers. The Tower of Sorcery was in fact two towers, surrounded by a protective wall. The courtyard was deserted, the dulled stones swallowing the moons' light as though drawing in magic. Dalamar's worn boots didn't so much as whisper over the stones, running to where he had last seen the shadow. It was the right-hand tower, the only one with a visible door. The door was half open, a sliver of light emanating from the crack. For a heartbeat, the light thinned as the shadow slipped across it. Dalamar's shoulder hit the smooth red wood, and he barely managed to turn his head away to avoid cracking it on the dragon-headed door knocker.

The door flew open and Dalamar almost staggered into the corridor, breathing hard.

The door slammed shut behind him.

The corridor was as empty as the courtyard had been, but warm and well furnished. After the darkness outside, the light was almost dazzling, and Dalamar's eyes ached in abrupt adjustment. The light didn't emanated from anywhere, but seemed to come from everywhere at once. Despite this, the shadow beside him was clear and well-defined against the wall.  
A clatter ahead pulled Dalamar.s attention away from the shadow, footsteps on a hard floor. The floor here was lined with plush carpets which swallowed Dalamar's footsteps as he started. So, someone else was here too.

He paused, and glanced at his shadowy companion. Raistlin's shade paid him no more attention than before, but moved forwards, towards the noise. In sharp relief on the polished wood of the wall, its identity was clearer than ever. Raistlin's face, his robes, even the way he moved his hands. It brought a stab of pain to Dalamar's heart as he followed.  
There were windows on the left hand wall, and Dalamar spend up his pace, he wanted to see Raistlin again, if only through this shade. He was faster than the shadow, and waited by the window. Again, his reflection was invisible.

Raistlin's wasn't, and again Dalamar felt his heart jump at the sight of that achingly familiar face. This time he didn't move on, but waiting, looking curiously through the window, a small smile on his face. Perhaps it was just chance that made his look as though he was staring straight at Dalamar's face.

The reflection blinked, dark lashes fluttering over blue eyes, then turned to walk on, more slowly this time.

The next window, Dalamar knew he should be concentrating on just following the shadow, should be focusing on what he would see in the window rather than how much he just wanted to see Raistlin again. Like his fears in coming to Silvanesti, to have the pain stop for such a brief while when it was sure to start again, worse than ever.

Raistlin's eyes, clear and blue, so different from those he remembered, but still Raistlin. There was something in his eyes Dalamar would always recognise, something that was gone from the creature he had seen in Neraka. Dalamar swallowed, wanting to look away but unable to tear himself away. Raistlin shook his head irritably, as though reprimanding himself for wasting time, and hurried on.

The corridor turned right sharply, and there were no more windows, this corridor was longer, and emptier. The walls were rougher, and there were no more carpets. This was where the footsteps had come from, and he spotted a flicker of movement ahead of him, though it was gone too fast to make out what.

The shadow was moving faster, and Dalamar sped up to keep up. The corridor seemed to go on forever, and in its emptiness, he felt as insubstantial as Raistlin's shade, his boots made no more sound on hard floor than on the carpets, and, clear as the shadow was, his was nowhere to be seen.  
Then, suddenly, Raistlin stepped out in front of him.

Dalamar stopped dead. Raistlin was looking at him, a strange, intense look, as though trying to read him. He waited, and Dalamar reached out a tentative hand, barely daring to hope... Then his fingers touched cold glass, another window, or a mirror. Beyond Raistlin's reflection, the corridor stretched on, and in the distance, he could see a figure. The same figure whose footsteps he'd heard. A Black Robe.

Raistlin frowned again, then turned his back on Dalamar as though to follow the figure, then vanished.

Dalamar stepped forwards and touched the glass, then started as his own reflection finally appeared. He was pale, surely paler than he was now. His skin was the colour of parchment, his skin and robes drained of what little colour they had, a portrait in black and white. Dalamar had to stare at his hands to make sure his own body hadn't done the same.

The glass under his fingers chilled suddenly and he snatched his hands back. The reflection winked, then reached towards him, the hand piercing the skin of the mirror.

The colourless fingers touched Dalamar's arm, the touch was as cold as the mirror and again Dalamar flinched back. The mirror-Dalamar's fingers glinted red, like blood-stained glass and colour started to return to its face. Dalamar jumped back again, Raistlin's shadow was disappearing down the corridor, he had to end this fight as quickly as possible.  
_"Kair tangus moipiar!"_

_Kair tangus moipiar_, his reflection mouthed, soundlessly, hands perfectly mirroring Dalamar's.

The blast of flame caught it in the face at the same time as it's caught Dalamar, like his reflection; that of the spell was colourless. The reflection just smiled through the smoke, unharmed, but Dalamar reeled, the touch of the creature's spell was as cold as its hands. Again, the reflection smiled, life returning to its eyes.

Dalamar couldn't breathe properly, his chest clenching tight against the wave of icy cold that swept through him. He backed away again, discarding spellcasting. If this creature had been called by the Tower mages to stop him, even his most powerful spells would have no effect. He drew his dagger, his reflection copying his motions. He hesitated. If he struck it, it would strike him, and he wasn't about to gamble his life that he would survive the blow when his reflection wouldn't. He tried to look beyond it, at the mirror where Raistlin's shadow was moving further away.  
The mirror!

Dalamar thrust his dagger back in its sheath and raised his hands for another spell. _"Ast kiranann kair gadunrm soth-arn suh kali jalaran"_  
The reflection copied him, but as his spell wasn't aimed at it, its spell missed too. The colourless lightning bolt sailed harmlessly down the corridor. Dalamar's, however, smashed headlong into the mirror.  
The lightning bolt itself did no damage, but the concussive blast of exploding air cracked the glass. The reflection also cracked, the image splintering, but not falling apart. It froze, momentarily unable to move.  
The moment was all Dalamar needed, darting past the reflection with his dagger back in his hand. The hilt smashed into the mirror, and the glass fell apart. The reflection did the same.  
Behind the mirror was another corridor, the same corridor Dalamar had seen, but with mirrors lining both walls. Not waiting for them to start spawning reflections, Dalamar started to run. He kept his eyes on the mirrors, but there was no sign of motion, his reflection was no longer there and this time, Dalamar was relieved. He risked a glance aside, and spotted the strange figure again, this time turning a corner out of sight. When he drew his attention back to the mirrors, he stopped dead. Raistlin.

Raistlin wasn't walking, but standing still, the mirror no longer reflecting the corridor, but a scene that must have come from Raistlin's Test.  
His young lover was standing over a pile of books, and Dalamar recognised them with a jolt as the very books he had brought back for his Test, the very books he still had in his bag. They were stacked in a pile, and Raistlin stood over them, a small, satisfied smile on his face. He had been hunting these books, and had finally found them. He ran a hand lovingly over the binding, then picked up the topmost book.

Suddenly Raistlin spun around, as though startled by some sudden noise or motion. It was like watching a sickening play, knowing something terrible must be about to happen but being utterly powerless to stop it. Like in Silvanesti. Like in the Nightmare.

But unlike the Nightmare, Dalamar was able to see what happened next. He was able to see the old man materialise out of the darkness. He was able to see the cruel expression, the hunched posture, the grasping hands, the terrible smile. And most of all, he was able to see the cold, dead eyes.  
Eyes he had seen before.

Dalamar couldn't move. His chest constricted until he couldn't even breathe. This was it; this was what- who- he had been searching for. It was those eyes which started out from Raistlin's face, that mouth that pulled Raistlin's, those hands that manipulated his lover's body like a puppet, and that dead mind that controlled him now. This was it. This was him, and Dalamar tore his attention away from the dead mage in time to see Raistlin name him, his lips moving to shape '_Fistandantilus.'_

_Skull Bearer._


	3. Dreams

_Nighto: Thank you._

_Lord Anaki: Glad you enjoyed it._

_Shadow: Next chapter up._

_piratelore: I thought it would be suitably dramatic to do it this way :)_

_Dracoqueen: Repercussions of the knowledge comes out here._

_Halokitty69: I am mean._

_Shadowvalkyrie: Fistandantilus is one of the only characters in my head to recieve negative biscuits._

**Torqueo **

Dreams

_a thousand generations  
the soil on which we walk  
a mountain of mistakes  
for us to climb for pleasure  
-Call the Ships to Port, Covenant_

It should have been a relief. He had been seeking answers for so long that anything would have been better than not knowing. It wasn't. In that moment, Dalamar understood why Raistlin hadn't told him the truth. His lover had been right; he wouldn't have wanted to know.  
Not if the truth was this.

Oh, Nuitari.

In the mirror, Fistandantilus' face contorted, and Dalamar felt as though he'd been kicked in the stomach. He'd seen that look on Raistlin's face, when he had seen him in Neraka. Just after... no. It had been imagination and futile hope that had made him seen something of Raistlin in those dead eyes. Stupid, pointless hope.  
Fistandantilus picked up one of the books, and opened it. It was blank. He closed it, and opening it again, this time revealing page after page of familiar writing. Offering them to Raistlin.  
Dalamar saw the look of longing in Raistlin's eyes. He knew how he felt, could understand the desire, but... surely, Raistlin had to have known who he was dealing with. No amount of magic could possibly have been worth taking such a risk. Raistlin had to have known... had to have known what Fistandantilus had done to...

And perhaps he didn't know, or Fistandantilus had offered something- a promise, a threat- that gave Raistlin no other choice. Because after an endless heartbeat, he'd taken the books.  
Dalamar wanted to scream, shout, bang on the glass... but what good would that do? He couldn't do anything. He couldn't pass through the glass and affect what had already happened. All he could do was watch, and no matter how much he wanted to, he couldn't look away. It was like a fist had closed around his insides, and was trying to turn him inside out. He almost doubled over, his lips drawn back in impotent rage. Why were they showing him this? Why like this? Was this how they wanted to get rid of him, by giving him what he wanted in such a way that would cripple him?

He watched, he had to watch as Raistlin sat down with the books in his laps, following silent instruction from Fistandantilus. He was scribing scrolls from the spellbooks. Dalamar recognized them, missiles of force, advanced fireball, a banishment spell for undead. Dalamar almost smiled at the heartbreaking familiarity of it, broken only by the hideous specter hovering behind the young mage, eyes locked on him with an intensity that sent chills through the Dark elf.

Fistandantilus. The greatest mage that had ever lived. The seemingly immortal archmage who clearly had _not_ died in the Dwarfgate Wars, as everyone had assumed. Who had survived... Oh Nuitari no. Dalamar had heard the dark rumors that surrounded the ancient archmage. He had lived thousands of years, never aging, using an enchanted bloodstone to drain the life-forces of those who apprenticed under him.  
Dalamar's stomach clenched again, and nausea swept through him at the hunger in Fistandantilus' eyes. By the expression on Raistlin's face, the young mage had seen it too, and knew what it meant.  
But it could happen. It couldn't. Raistlin hadn't died during the Test. He had walked out, and there had been no sign of... of Fistandantilus until so many years later. The archmage hadn't killed him.

_Not yet, anyway._ His mind whispered before he could stop it.

A soft clicking noise reached Dalamar's ears, a violent contrast to the utter silence of the images. He managed to tear his eyes away, and stared, in equal horror, back down the corridor.  
There had to have been three dozen mirrors between him and the broken mirror, three dozen reflections. Three dozen colourless images of himself pulling themselves free.  
In a part of his mind not paralyzed from the joint shocks, Dalamar wondered how those reflections could be smiling, when he seemed to have forgotten how.

Then the shock shattered like glass, and Dalamar lifted his hands. He forced his mind out of its state of horror and focused it on a spell. A more powerful spell.  
The lightning bolt shot down the corridor, it struck two reflections and Dalamar staggered backwards as two colourless bolts struck him in return. His blood turned to ice and for a moment his breath misted white, frost in the warm air. The chill passed too slowly, but it had been worth it. The concussive blast of the lightning bolt was more powerful, shattering mirrors and reflections alike. Behind the glass, the mirrors were the glossy black of tar.  
Dalamar turned and sprinted down the corridor. His heart pounded against his chest as he ran, the reflection in the intact mirror showed, not Raistlin, but his own colourless image. Not waiting for them to pull free, Dalamar ran faster. The corridor seemed endless, in the distance, it made a sharp left turn and there, Dalamar saw something moving. Black robes. He only hoped they belonged to the figure he'd seen earlier, and not more reflections.

The reflections on either side had changed again, behind his image he could see Raistlin again. He could make out only fragments of what was happening, sometimes behind him, sometimes in front. Raistlin casting, fighting against a skeletal specter. Fire and magic wreathing his hands, turning the skin a gleaming gold.

A hand struck out, his own, black and white hand. Dalamar knew better than to fight back and ducked under it. His breath was sharp in his chest, each step made his legs ache. He was tiring fast, exhausted as much from mental shock as physical exertion.  
In the mirror, behind the reflections. Raistlin was casting again, a ball of flame engulfing the room.

The corridor turned, and ended sharply with a door. There were two more mirrors, but they had no reflections. Instead, Dalamar saw Raistlin clearly again. He looked strange, blue eyes staring out from the golden skin, the contrast making his hair more red than brown. It was so strange, at once the old Raistlin he remembered, and the man who he had met outside the Tower. So different, but still the same person. Those eyes, whether blue or gold, he knew so well. He saw the confidence in those eyes, a sharp, clever smile hovering on those lips. A golden hand reached out to push the door open.

The clicking came again, louder, and Dalamar pushed at the door. To his astonishment, it opened easily, and he hurried through, pushing the door closed after him.  
There were no more mirrors, just a spiral staircase leading up. It was tight and narrow, and he felt exhausted just at the sight of those endless steps. Further up, he saw Raistlin's face looking back at him from a window, and with a deep breath, gathering his remaining reserves of strength, Dalamar started to climb.

Raistlin was climbing too, steps that seemed to hang in mid air. The conclusion of his Test. What had happened? Dalamar forced himself to move faster, not wanting to miss anything that could throw more light on this. What had happened to Raistlin? What had Fistandantilus done to him that had led to... to that?  
The archmage was waiting for Raistlin in the next window pane. The dead appearance was no longer confined to his eyes; the mage's face had taken on the countenance of a corpse, cold and lifeless, almost translucent.  
Raistlin almost smirked, staring disdainfully at the long-dead mage. What sort of threat was _this_?

Dalamar didn't have to hear the words Raistlin spoke. When Fistandantilus reached out for him, a motion that chilled Dalamar far more than the reflected lightning, Raistlin easily stepped aside, almost laughing at the undead mage. He waved him off as he would his brother. Fistandantilus had served him, he could now go back to whatever afterlife he waited in and better luck next time.  
It was at once wonderful and painful. He loved Raistlin so much, because it would be exactly what Raistlin would do, even to Fistandantilus. And it hurt, because Dalamar already knew he had failed.

The dead silence was broken again, a loud clattering from further up. Whoever it was ahead of him, Dalamar was gaining on them. Who were they? The only mage here, other than himself. Perhaps one sent to watch him? Dalamar found he didn't care. He didn't care for anything save the next window.

What he saw there made him stop dead and stare. Of all the things he could have expected it was not this.  
Raistlin was sitting beside Crystalmir lake on a clear, moonlit night, relaxed and calm, leaning on a tree stump. Dalamar had seen him like that, been with him like that so many times it seemed as though the scene had been lifted straight from his most cherished memories. If it wasn't for the golden cast of Raistlin's skin, he might have believed it.  
Dalamar stared at the window longingly. If he could have anything, anything in the world... it would be for it to stop there. For the mages of the Tower to have ended Raistlin's Test right there. Because something was going to happen. This idyllic scene was going to fracture somehow. _Had_ fractured.

He saw it in the next window. Raistlin staring, sitting up, scrambling to his feet to meet the creatures Dalamar saw in the window after that. Undead shades, specters most likely summoned by Fistandantilus himself. Raistlin barely had time to snatch up the scrolls, let alone cast, before they were on him. Raistlin vanished under a sea of writhing black.  
Light blazed from the next window, as though the sun had broken through the barriers of sorcery and into the Tower. The black shades around Raistlin retreated, then vanished as Raistlin cast again. Dalamar shook his head, amazed that his young lover had had the strength to cast at all, let alone so quickly.

Raistlin had cast, but he was out of strength. Dalamar felt dizzy as he continued to climb up. He'd lost count how many floors he'd passed, how many windows. He heard steps again, closer still. Whoever it was here was only a floor or two above.  
And it couldn't be much further to the top. The ceiling was flat, rather than showing the corrugated impression of yet more stairs. There should be at least a landing ahead, if not a floor.  
Then Dalamar lost all interest in where he was, because Fistandantilus was there, reflected in the glass, face to face with Raistlin. The undead mage's face was little more than a skull, only one eye left, the other a worm-eaten husk. Raistlin's face was a mask of rage, unable to muster the strength to stop the lich.  
Dalamar actually doubled over, as though someone had punched him, at the sight of the bloodstone pendant around Fistandantilus' neck. He knew... oh Nuitari no. The glass was cold under his fingers, Fistandantilus lifted the stone over Raistlin's chest, the hideous hunger back in his eyes.

_'Not so arrogant now, youngling?'_ Those rotten lips spoke.

Those skeletal fingers, bone tips razor sharp, reached for Raistlin's chest- and the glass shattered. Dalamar stared down at his bleeding fist in shock, only just realizing he had been pounding on the glass as though it was a cage. He was in so much shock that his hand didn't hurt, and it took him a moment to gather himself enough to _move_. He had to move. He had to... he had to see. If that was the only thing he could offer Raistlin he would see what... what happened.

Raistlin's hand was also bleeding, although there were no visible wounds. Those were on his chest. The lich's fingers had torn the flesh to ribbons, on hand still caught in his ribs. Dalamar didn't see it. He couldn't process what he was seeing. It was like a shadow-puppet show, unreal, distant. He couldn't, it couldn't... He was shaking his head, over and over again. No. No. No.  
Fistandantilus' foul face split into a vicious smile, before fading. The lich's decaying body losing substance, becoming something less than flesh, less than air.

Dalamar didn't need to see where it went. He couldn't have watched it anyway. His tore himself away, and all but staggered up the last few steps to the landing and the door set in the far wall.  
He couldn't watch. He couldn't. He knew where Fistandantilus had gone. He knew. He knew. It was what he had come to find out and now he knew. Raistlin had been right, he hadn't wanted to know. Every time he'd been angry with the young mage, demanded, turned away. He hated himself now. To have demanded Raistlin to tell him... this! How had he been able to live with that knowledge? How could he live knowing that... that creature was always there, always watching...  
Dalamar felt dizzy, sick. He stumbled across the landing and leant against the door, a moment, just a moment. To gather his thoughts, to keep control.

He shouldn't have known. For the first time in his life, Dalamar didn't want to know something. Raistlin must have felt the same way. But he had known, and now, so did Dalamar. Just as he knew, as he wrenched the door open and saw the figure standing with his back to him, just who had been leading this chase.

They were on a walkway snaking around the top of the Tower. A railing as fine as spiderweb was all that stood between them and the long, long drop down. The figure was standing there, not bothering to turn around although he knew Dalamar was there. Dalamar swallowed. The same person he had been chasing through the Tower. Both of them.

Raistlin turned. His eyes were cold and dead, Fistandantilus' eyes. Raistlin as he had seen him in Neraka. Dressed in black robes. The body he knew so well a puppet under Fistandantilus' strings.  
No. No. Dalamar mouthed soundlessly. Then. "No!"

Fistandantilus drew Raistlin's face into a snarling smile. Dalamar didn't question how this could be happening, how he could be /here/ of all places. Nor did he consider that he was about to attack the most powerful mage on Krynn. He didn't care. He flew at the monster, drawing his dagger, his free hand hooking into claws.

His nails raked that impossibly inhuman face, anything to stop it, to hide those eyes. Anything. But his dagger... he couldn't. Raistlin... That blade would drive through skin his knew, through muscles he had touched, end the life he had cherished and loved...  
Raistlin couldn't have either. But Fistandantilus had no such compulsions.

Raistlin's hand. Fistandantilus' hand pressed against his chest, as though the lich was trying to drive his claws through Dalamar's chest as he had with Raistlin. His robes burnt to ash under those fingertips, and Dalamar cried out. Those beautiful fingers, delicate, made as much for pleasure as spellcasting. They burnt against his flesh as though at once red-hot and unbearably cold. The pain was unbearable. Tears stung his eyes and he felt blood running down from the wound, his legs weakening, the pressure on his chest increasing as though the lich wished for his life force as well as Raistlin's. The world blurred and he was left staring into Raistlin's eyes. Fistandantilus' eyes. Dead eyes.

"You're dead." Dalamar whispered- A statement. A threat. A promise- and drove his dagger into Fistandantilus' side.

Ice-cold blood poured over his hand, and the creature staggered against the railing. Dalamar's weight crushed him against it, pushing the blade in still deeper. Raistlin's body was as cold s the railing, colder, draining the warmth from his body. The dagger rose, and fell again, and that terrible face was eclipsed by a flood of scarlet. He screamed, and Dalamar screamed, and the railing screamed as it finally tore under their weight and they were falling down, down, down onto the sharp-toothed fence below.

The last thing Dalamar saw was the side of the Tower flying past, and Raistlin's- Fistandantilus'- face contorted with pain and rage, before the magic gathered around him, and the world floated away...

_Skull Bearer._


	4. Waking

_Tiernan Hunter: Not quite like that, but thank you all the same, I'm glad I was able to fool you.  
Alicia: Thank you.  
Arrasailup: Thank you, you are very perceptive. I hope you enjoy this.  
Shadow: Yes, as I have said, I am evil. Getting better, who are you kidding?  
Koroko Serinia: Nope, and thank you.  
Pirateslore: Thank you, and yes, I am being evil, and only getting eviler.  
Shadowvalkyrie: Thank you so much, knowing I got the characters (character) right is great. I hope you like this one.  
Arashineko: Not quite, and thank you.  
Halokitty69: Covenant is great, I hope you like this too._

**Torqueo**

Chapter Four- Waking

_A hundred clocks are ticking _

_The line becomes a circle _

_Spin the wheel of fortune _

_Or learn to navigate -Call the Ships to Port, Covenant._

Dalamar opened his eyes a third time. He barely remembered the first, lying flat on a stone floor, miraculously unharmed after his plummet from the walkway. He'd still felt as though he was falling, staring up and feeling the voices around him wash over like water, wondering where the ceiling had come from. Then the voices had raised and covered him, and the ceiling had spun into darkness.  
He remembered the second more clearly; he'd been lying in a bed, the same bed he was lying in now. Dark shapes had hovered over him, whispers trickling over his skin.  
"...did he see"  
"...doesn't matter what, you saw what he did"  
"...one of yours Ladonna, your choice"  
"...his choice more than mine"  
Then the darker silhouette had bent over him, a woman's face. Funny, he'd been expecting Nuitari. "Takhisis?" His voice had been a cracked whisper.  
The woman had shaken her head, and the world had faded to black once again.

The ceiling was different from the first time, Dalamar decided. He remembered the arches quite clearly, so high it seemed impossible for them to hang there unsupported. This time the ceiling was plain stone, cleverly slatted in a pattern that entranced the eye. Dalamar turned his head away, and saw he wasn't alone in the room.  
It was the woman, the woman he had taken to be Takhisis, when he'd thought he was dead. She was sitting in the shadows beside a window, the curtains drawn. When she saw he was awake she stood up and drew them back.  
The light was dazzling, and Dalamar closed his eyes again, covering his face with his hand. When he removed it she had come closer, and drawn her seat beside the bed.  
Dalamar rubbed his face and peered blearily at the woman. She wore a black robe, he noted, realising simultaneously that he was missing his own, and was naked beneath the blanket. She was tall, probably as tall as he was, and straight-backed despite her obvious age, her hair was silver, and bound in a braid that rivaled the ceiling in intricacy. Her eyes were dark as a bird's, and fixed unblinkingly on Dalamar.

Dalamar frowned, and forced himself up on his elbows. His body moved more easily than it had for weeks, free of the aches and pains of rough living. He wondered how long he'd been asleep.  
Had it all been a dream? Dalamar tried not to think about it, he could feel the memories closing in on his mind, and fought to keep them away. "Where am I"  
The woman laughed, a curiously deep sound, "Where? You risk all to travel and come here, and then ask where you are"  
Dalamar felt blood rise to his cheeks, "The Tower of High Sorcery then. But how did I get to this room"  
"We brought you here. You were too diligent for us to dream of turning you away"  
"Only those who have passed the Test can come here." Dalamar snapped, drawing the covers to his bare chest.  
The woman simply smiled.  
Dalamar's fingers tightened on the soft wool of the blanket. Yes. Of course. The memories closed on him, claws raking the back of his mind. "My Test"  
"Yes. Congratulations"  
Closer. Raistlin's face. Fistandantilus' face. "I passed"  
"You are alive"  
Raistlin's hands. Fistandantilus' claws. He didn't feel like it.  
"You were close to death." The woman admitted.  
Fistandantilus' laughter. Raistlin... Raistlin. Oh please no. "Did you create them"  
"What did we create"  
"What I saw. What I..." Dalamar took a deep breath. "I saw another's Test. In the mirrors"  
"Who's?" The woman's face became more intense, each line becoming deeper.  
"Raistlin's." The name was a whisper.  
"Ah." She hadn't known. Dalamar felt the despair clawing at his heart, if she hadn't known; she couldn't have made it up. And if it hadn't been made up... Not yet. Not yet.  
"It has been known to happen." She said eventually. "The currents of magic are the strongest during one's Test, they can be... unpredictable. Even to those controlling it"  
"So what I saw..." He couldn't finish it.  
"It happened"  
Not yet. Not yet. "Thank you, my lady." He didn't know how he got the words out. He barely knew what he was saying. "If you would, I would like to be alone for a moment"  
"Of course. When you are ready to leave, knock three times on the door. We will be waiting for you." With that, she left, fading into the air.

Dalamar didn't move at first, in case she hadn't left at all. He held his breath, listening, but there was nothing but silence.  
Dalamar drew his knees against his chest. It was real then. Or it wasn't. They had Tested him. And none of it had happened. Raistlin. He looked at his hands. He knew now. Fistandantilus. Dalamar closed his eyes, shivering. His eyes burnt, but he couldn't cry, the tears wouldn't come. Fistandantilus had killed him. He'd killed Raistlin. He clung onto his knees. He couldn't... Oh Nuitari. The undead monster had killed him like he had killed so many others. He had drained his life with the bloodstone and taken his body for his own, as he had so many others, over so many, many years. Raistlin had fought. Of course he had. But Nuitari only knew how many Fistandantilus had killed; Raistlin had fought him off to begin with but would only ever be one more, in the end.

Oh Nuitari. Dalamar touched his own face, feeling tears. He closed his eyes and felt them spill out and run down his cheeks. Raistlin was dead. Raistlin had died in the Blood Sea. What he had seen in Neraka... Fistandantilus had killed him and taken his body. What he had seen was a puppet, a dead puppet. Dalamar shuddered, his breath caught, choking, sobbing.

He had done so much, gone so far. He had kept going for so long, endlessly, never letting himself give up. He had tried, desperately; he hadn't let himself feel the pain of going on. For Raistlin, anything, everything for his lover. For nothing. It had been too late the moment he had begun. Raistlin. It hurt. Raistlin was dead. The memories were dazzling. Raistlin's eyes when he smiled, gold, blue, it didn't matter, the way they shone with that wicked, clever smile. The way he looked at Dalamar when the elf had managed to surprise him, the quicksilver wonder and amazement melting into delight. The smile slowly spreading across his face. The way he laughed, so hesitant at first, then more easily, baring his teeth in a sharp smile. His spectacular beauty, sharp-edged and gleaming.

He had never believed he would fail, never. He had never failed before, the world had fought against him, and he had lost so much, but he had always won in the end. He had thought this would be the same. He had believed, deep within his heart, that this was something he could fight his way through, it would hurt him, he would come out a little more damaged, but it would be worth it, and in the end Raistlin would be there again. Himself again.

He knew Raistlin would die in the end. That was the endless, tragic cliche of human and elven love. But not yet, not nearly yet. He had thought. He had assumed, damn him. He had let himself believe they would have the time, pushing away those fears. They had been in the middle of a war, risking their lives every day, but he had believed they would live forever. How could he not, with Raistlin always there, bright and burning and eternal as the sun.  
And he was gone. He was gone forever, and all that was left was the twisted mockery he had seen in Neraka. Those hands, which had slipped so lightly over his skin, glowing with magic. Clenching into Fistandantilus' claws. Those eyes, so familiar, dead, cold.

Like a hook, like those fingers sinking into his chest. Hooking into his heart and tearing it to pieces. Dalamar touched his chest, as though expecting to feel the wounds the lich had clawed there. His felt nothing but smooth skin. Raistlin's fingers. Fistandantilus' claws. The pain and terror in Raistlin's eyes, the triumph in Fistandantilus'. He had known he would win in the end.

The hook turned into a tongue of flame. The same fury that had gripped him at the top of the Tower. Hatred. Fistandantilus had killed Raistlin. He had killed him and taken- oh Nuitari- had taken his body for his own. He had stolen his magic and life. Dalamar lifted his head from his hands; face still streaked with tears, eyes burning with rage. "You are dead." A promise. He would kill him, he would. To Nuitari he swore, God of secrets and magic... and vengeance. He would kill him. Never mind that the lich was the most powerful mage on Krynn, even more so with Raistlin's power under his command. Never mind that Dalamar had no idea where to start, or even where he was, or that the creature had the power of a Dragon Orb under his command. He would do it. Even if he had to emulate his Test and die along with him.  
It would almost be a relief, and Dalamar hated himself for it. It would be so easy just to give up afterwards, if there was an afterwards. It was cowardly but sweet Nuitari what was the point in going on if it was going to hurt this much?  
No. Dalamar shook his head. He was not going to give up now. He couldn't. Failure was not an option, not even a possibility. Fistandantilus was dead, even though the foul creature didn't know it yet. He would kill him no matter what it cost him. Even if it was as anti-climatic as waiting until he slept and putting a pillow over his face.

Dalamar closed his eyes, his mind clearing as it always did. A goal, he could go on forever as long as he had something to focus on. His goal had carried him from Kalaman to Neraka to Wayreth, to end here. Nuitari only knew where this one would carry him, or for how long, but he would do it, he would follow Fistandantilus as doggedly as he had followed- /thought he'd followed/- Raistlin. He would do it, as he had in his Test. He would do it. Nuitari as his witness, he would see Raistlin avenged.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When Dalamar knocked at the door, his hand was steady, although he was pale and his eyes blood-shot. He felt cold, cold through and through, as though he had become his own reflection. The door opened, although no one was behind it. A light shone in the distance, down what appeared to be a flight of stairs. Slowly, one hand on the banister to steady his still unsteady legs, Dalamar followed it.  
The stairs looked much like the ones he had raced up during his Test, but the sun was shining through the windows, and when Dalamar looked into them, all he saw was his own, faint reflection and the courtyard of the Tower. Gritting his teeth, biting back the pain that dragged at his heart, he continued down.

They were waiting for him, in the very hall Dalamar knew he had been earlier, the high, vaulted hall without pillars to support it, rising up like obsidian waves. At the far end were tier upon tier of seats, stacked up in a semi-circle. The Hall of Mages. The heart of arcane magic in Krynn. Raistlin had told him about it. Dalamar could remember his face, after they had recovered from the shock of his Test, talking animatedly in that whispering voice that would become so familiar. Telling him about the Tower and the Hall. The light in his eyes, the smile on his face. Dalamar felt his own eyes burn, his vision swim, but he didn't let the tears fall. Not here, not in front of them.

There were only three, sitting in the three great chairs at the fore of the others. An old man in white robes, sitting on the far left. A man in red robes, sitting in the center, and the woman in black, sitting on the right. They were bathed in a colourless white light that came from nowhere. A pool of light painted the floor in front of them, and Dalamar stepped into it. It didn't blind him, rather illuminating everything around him.

"Do you know who we are now, Dalamar Nightson?" The woman was smiling, and Dalamar felt renewed flash of rage, as her mocking tone.

He didn't let his emotions show. "Yes." He looked at the woman, in her rich robes, "You are Ladonna, the Black Poison, head of the black robes." At her nod, he turned to the Red Robe. He remembered how Raistlin had worn those robes, and the man in the ruins of Istar. "You are Justarius, head of the Red." The man inclined his head, and Dalamar turned to the third and last, and the flame in his throat turned into a wildfire. "You are Par-Salian." How his voice was so steady, Dalamar would never know. "Head of the White." You cursed my lover, you threw him at the mercy of an undead monster and let him be torn to pieces, then forced him into a war that wasn't his, and once he'd won it, let Fistandantilus keep him. Or waited for him to kill himself, whichever came first.

"You know us." Justarius nodded again, "But perhaps, not so surprising." He looked meaningfully at Par-Salian, who didn't rise to the bait

"We've been over this." He ignored Dalamar, turning to Ladonna. "Are you sure, this seems too sudden."

"You often tell us to trust in the Gods, Par-Salian." She smiled at him, "Trust in them this time. This is our best chance."

It reminded Dalamar of being in Silvanesti, an insignificant servant, talked over by his masters.

"We cannot afford to delay our plans." Justarius put in, "It has been more than a month and there has been no answer from Palanthas, he means to eventually move against us." There was fear in his eyes, fear in all their eyes, although well hidden.

"If I am not needed." This time Dalamar failed to keep the note of anger out of his voice. "I can wait elsewhere." He could feel the pain clawing up his throat again, and it was everything he could do to keep the tears from his eyes. He wanted this to be over quickly, and find somewhere quiet.

"My apologies." Par-Salian smiled at him kindly, like a grandfather at an errant child. Dalamar wanted to strangle him. "We do need you, Nightson." He paused, rubbing his chin. "What do you know, Dark elf, of the Tower of Palanthas?"

Dalamar frowned, an ember of suspicion flickering in his chest. It was ridiculous, but... why else would they choose him? And the dragon, the dragon had been flying west. "I know," He said slowly, "That the Tower has been closed and cursed since the days of the Kingpriest, and none have been able to enter."

"But one has entered it." Justarius' hands were clenched, anger and fear slipping through his impassive facade. "As was foretold."

Foretold? Dalamar knew the stories. Had studied them with... with Raistlin. The Tower of Palanthas would be closed until the right person came. "The Master of Past and Present." His mouth went dry, because he knew who that was, knew it as well as his own name, and his next word was a whisper. "Fistandantilus."

The three mages didn't hear him. "You know the legend." Par-Salian nodded. "The one has come. You know his name" Yes I do, but not the one you know. Dalamar nodded stiffly, he wouldn't insult Raistlin but giving that monster his name.

"Raistlin Majere." Ladonna smiled at Dalamar. "I believe you... knew him." She knew what Raistlin was to him, and found it amusing. Dalamar didn't let himself twitch, keeping his face and body completely impassive, he wouldn't let her see how deeply that hurt.

"He betrayed you." Par-Salian looked grave. No he didn't, if nothing else, Dalamar would always know that Raistlin had never betrayed him, and never lied to him without good reason. He didn't respond, and Par-Salian continued. "And now, he has betrayed us." He didn't, he wouldn't. Fistandantilus betrayed you, as he did everyone. "He is the Master of Past and Present." But he shouldn't be. Raistlin should be, Raistlin should be there, and Dalamar should be with him, lying in the Tower, surrounded by more magic than they could dream of and laughing at the rest of the world.  
He wouldn't cry. He wouldn't cry. He wouldn't let them see his tears. He'd only let Raistlin see that, and Raistlin was dead.  
"He has entered the Tower. He is a powerful mage, far more powerful, I think, that you remember." Par-Salian looked intently at Dalamar, but Dalamar didn't flinch. He couldn't.

"Powerful enough to forbid us the Tower." Of course. He saw anger in Ladonna's eyes as she spat the words, and fear, ridiculous fear. She knew that if this upstart wanted her position, he would have it. Dalamar knew Fistandantilus would never bother.  
"But he does not forbid it, to all." She continued.

"If you think he would let me in, for what I was to him..." Dalamar hated them, hated them so much. They had not called him in for his skill with the magic, for his knowledge or anything but the fact that he had been Raistlin Majere's lover. Ever the whore.

To his surprise, Par-Salian shook his head, and his fury ebbed a little. "No, we would not think that. But he will allow one into the Tower. An apprentice. "And you mean to send me." Shock came first, then incredulity, and finally, a furious joy that cut more deeply than it soothed. He would kill Fistandantilus, under the cloak of the Conclave, with their blessings on his back.

Justarius nodded once, grudgingly, and Dalamar suspected he had been initially opposed to this. "You have shown great resourcefulness and skill in the Test, and in your travels."

Ladonna broke in, and Dalamar wondered how long they had rehearsed this. "You kept your loyalties hidden from the Silvanesti for years; they had to find you with a dark tome in your hand to exile you." How dare she!

"And most importantly," Par-Salian finished. "You know Raistlin Majere. You know what he is like." Yes, and if that was any use I wouldn't be here. "He has asked for an apprentice, but we would send a spy." Or a whore, either would do.

"I would kill him." His voice was hoarse.

"That may come." Ladonna nodded, "But you have no chance at the moment, he is too powerful. He will not harm you, we have made it clear that a blow against you is a blow against the Conclave, and he is not powerful enough yet to move against us." Here face grew harsher. "I will not command you."

She didn't don't need to. There was never any other option. "I accept."

_Skull Bearer._


	5. Nightmare

_Lorean: Thank you, I hope you like this one as much.  
arrasailup: Thank you, to be honest, none of the three have much character, although Par-Salian is easy enough to get (ie, he's a Dumbledore-style bastard). Ladonna's going to be a throw away character, but Justarius is definitely going to get more of a look in.  
Shadow: Heh, hugs given, metaphysical and otherwise.  
WalkingInDarkness737: Margaret Weiss migth have thought of it, but Tracy Hickman's a missionary and is probably hellfire-homophobic. Twat. Thank you otherwise.  
shadowvalkyrie: Thank you as always.  
wanderingaddict: Thank you very much, it's harder to write omega-level characters like Raistlin, you need someone to play them against. Fistandantilus fills that role beautifully.  
Faersul: Thank you!  
vanyali: Thank you, I enjoyed writing it._

**Torqueo**

Epilogue- Nightmare

_a choir full of longing _

_will call our ships to port _

_the countless lonely voices _

_like whispers in the dark _

_-Covenant, Call the Ships to Port_

Had Dalamar tried to imagine the Tower of High Sorcery in Palanthas, even knowing of the curse and Fistandantilus, he wouldn't have come close to how it really was. Wayreth was strange enough, sometimes almost alive, but here... If Wayreth is alive, Palanthas was undead. Fistandantilus couldn't have chosen a more fitting place to dwell.

The Tower was like a claw, one of Fistandantilus' claws, black bone, like the Tower of the Stars had been white bone. It was darker than the night, dark as Nuitari. The trees around were almost black, like Darken Wood. Fistandantilus, Silvanesti and Darken Wood, bred from nightmares.

He clenched his fists as he looked at it, feeling the ring Par-Salian had given him cut into his finger. A rare ring of healing, in case everything went horribly wrong, to appease the old man's guilt. They'd given him new robes too, more fitting one for an apprentice of a Tower Master than the ragged, weather torn ones he'd been wearing. They were thick velvet, and seemed to blend into the darkness surrounding him.

He held up the Night Gem Par-Salian had given him, the gem that Fistandantilus himself must had giventhe old man. The undead creatures scrabbling around the hem of his robes made a strange noise, a screeching sob on the very edge of hearing, and vanished as though the graveyard earth had swallowed them.

The Gem was heavy, his arm ached from the effort of holding it up but he didn't lower it. If he could go on under the aching, endless lead weight of loss in his chest, he could keep holding up the Night Gem.

The Tower was coming closer, and Dalamar looked up. It too had a walkway, the Death Walk, from which the Black Robe had thrown himself. He wondered if he'd throw Fistandantilus off it, he wondered if he'd fall off too, as in the Test. He wondered if he was up there now, looking down. He hoped not, if nothing else, he wanted to see the lich's face when he saw him. He wanted to see that stolen face twist in the same kind of expression of hatred and shock he saw in Neraka, but didn't know enough to enjoy.

The Tower was ahead, the gate barring the way. Like his Test, so much like his Test, but the pillars on either side were tar black, and had no reflection. The spikes had shreds of black cloth clinging to them, the robes of the dead man. He didn't have to touch the gate, the moment he stepped close, it swung open. It was colder still within the gate, and Dalamar thought he saw a flicker of cold, dead eyes watching through the bars. The eyes of the undead in Darken Wood, of Silvanesti. But this one didn't move to attack, it just watched him, Dalamar stared back, then turned away.  
Its eyes followed him as he went.

He touched the front door, it looked like black wood, but closer to Dalamar saw it had been charred, as though the curse had burnt it. It was grainy and dusty under his fingers, and swung open before he put any pressure on it.

The interior was like pitch, and even his elven sight couldn't pierce it. The walls gleamed strangely, dark and shining like Nuitari, illuminating the corridor leading on. He followed it; the cold sank into his bones, chilling him to the core. It seemed endless, passing door after door after door and all identical, but eventually it did end, leading into a flight of stairs leading up. He took a deep breath, and started.

The steps were uneven, but somehow he found a rhythm. The Tower was hollow, and it was like walking up the inside of a well. The hole was fathomless.  
It was like the corridor, only walking up. Door after door, each one unmarked. Perhaps they had been once, but the curse that had consumed the Tower had charred off any distinguishing marks.

And finally, something changed. The next landing was larger than the others, with torches on either side of the door, a polished black door with a handle shaped like a skull. It was silver, and the eyesockets were empty. Dalamar reached out a hand, and this time it shook. His fingers trembled an inch from the ebony, ready to announce himself, then dropped, closing around the skull instead. He turned it, and pushed the door open.

The room was a study, a fire lit in the grate providing the only light. Books were stacked on the walls, their cold rivaling the warmth of the flames. The blue bound spellbooks of Fistandantilus.  
He stood with his back to Dalamar, before a huge stone table which stank of sea water, the smell battling with those of burning pine, rose petals and death. Fistandantilus turned, a smile ready prepared on his face. Had he planned to turn whoever was sent to him? To pretend he was Raistlin Majere and win them over one way or another? What that the reason for the fire? What other reason was there for a creature who could no longer feel the cold?

The fire glinted off the golden skin, glittered off those golden eyes, but Dalamar could never mistake that face for Raistlin's. Raistlin was dead, and if he had his way, the spirit inhabiting his body would soon follow suit.  
The smile vanished like an ember in a snowfield. For the first time since his Test, Dalamar smiled, a small, tight smile. Those dead eyes gleamed, pure hatred, and Dalamar saw his- Raistlin's hand- hand snake towards his spell components.  
Dalamar stood his ground, staring him down, and slowly, Fistandantilus lowered his clenched claw. The Conclave's gamble had worked. He wouldn't yet try and cross them.  
He sneered at him. Dalamar returned it.

"_Shalafi_." He spat.

* * *

Raistlin felt Fistandantilus' rage, but blind as he was, he couldn't see its target. A quick study of the lich's emotions -and that's what it had become, a quick study- revealed that it was whatever poor soul the Conclave had sent as the lich's apprentice. The lich needed an apprentice, and Raistlin hadn't tried to oppose the plan. He didn't dare risk revealing himself and hopefully, whoever came would serve to turn the lich's mind further outwards, away from the real danger.

Thinking of the Conclave had him thinking of Dalamar. He hoped the Dark elf was well, wherever he might be now, and hoped to the elf's chosen Nuitari that he wasn't about to go looking for him again. Hopefully he was in Wayreth; it would be the safest place for him. Fistandantilus wanted him dead but with luck the lich wouldn't dare to break the Conclave's laws yet.  
This seemed promising, though. Despite his obvious hatred for whoever had been chosen to be his apprentice, Fistandantilus wasn't about to kill him, he knew it would provide the Conclave with the excuse to attack, and held himself back. Good.

He felt a stab of pity for the fool who had agreed to this assignment, especially now. Still, anything that would distract Fistandantilus from what Raistlin was doing would be a welcome addition.

_Skull Bearer._


End file.
